


Benefits

by Forestwater



Series: Forestfuckery [2]
Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Hand Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Sort Of, Unrequited Crush, aka these two cannot keep it together, inspired by raenbows, not-compliant with canon or my fics or anyone's aus, this 'friends with benefits' thing is harder than it seemed at first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 15:15:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16746406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forestwater/pseuds/Forestwater
Summary: What they have has strict rules. No talking, no eye contact, nothing that could even imply feelings. Which wouldn't be a problem if David hadn't already been in love with her for years.(Originally published Sept. 2017)





	Benefits

**Author's Note:**

> Be nice, I wrote this a while ago. Originally published on [tumblr](https://forestwater87.tumblr.com/post/165133510171/gwenvid-smut-please-i-beg-you-please), so if it looks familiar that would be why.
> 
> This fic is very loosely based off the concept my beta, RA Enbows, came up with in a [beautiful fuckbuddies comic](http://raenbowsofficial.tumblr.com/post/162564744812/hey-so-hi-im-a-big-frickin-dunce-and-i-managed-to). I filled it with filth and angst.

“G-Gwen?”

“Hmm?”

“What are you doing?” His voice is low, much lower than it needs to be with the music and voices, but he sinks lower in the booth and glances around like they’re being watched. He manages to squeeze the panic from it, though. Despite the way her fingers are spider-walking across his thigh, he almost looks calm — at least to someone who doesn’t know him as well as she does.

She leans forward, inspecting the menu with exaggerated interest while her hand continues its steady — but painfully slow — trip inward. “Well, I’m thinking the Broken-Down Golf Cart looks good, and as for dinner —”

“Not what I meant,“ he replies, almost  _snapping_  at her, and for a second she freezes. Jesus, usually he’d throw himself off the dock rather than talk to her like that.

The thought makes her smile.

That smile makes him swallow hard.

“What’s wrong, David?” She smirks at him. “You sound kinda  _tense_.” As she speaks, she slides her palm over the growing bulge in his shorts, not squeezing — not yet — but just gently closing her fingers around him. He sucks in a sharp, pained breath and turns away. Like if he’s not looking at her she won’t notice how hard he’s becoming under her hand, or how unbelievably warm.

“I … I am,” he finally mumbles. “And you’re — not helping.”

“I  _could_ , though.” This isn’t something they do; fucking is a stress relief after a long day, a quick and dirty getting off for when masturbation just feels too lonely. It’s not this slow, torturous teasing that makes her lower body feel like it’s melting. It’s not cataloging every stutter in his breath and twitch of his cock like they’re suddenly very, very important.

It’s just sex, what they have together.

This … is something a lot more dangerous.

But if she had any intention of stopping, it crumbles under the sound he makes as she traces his zipper with one finger. It’s high and strung-out in the back of his throat, and he leans one elbow onto the table, biting down hard on his knuckles and exhaling loudly through his nose.

Fuck, she didn’t get herself a present, so …

Gwen snuggles closer to him, partly to make her hand placement look more natural and partly because she wants to hear him better. “I mean, it  _is_  my birthday,” she breathes, undoing his belt as smoothly as she can with one hand. “Don’t you want me to enjoy it?”

“I …” There’s a barely perceptible  _clink_  as the belt gives way, and then her hand is tugging insistently at his fly. “It’s — it’s not that I don’t  _want_  you to, b-but … there’s people here.”

“True.” She leans in and nudges at David’s cheek until he turns his head, giving him a very chaste-looking kiss on the lips — which disguises the groan he makes as her hand slips into his pants and her fingers wrap, soft and burning, around his cock. “You’ll just have to be quiet then, huh?”

She starts stroking, and he lets his eyes fall closed and his head rest against hers. He can’t keep a straight face, he knows that, he knows it’ll only take one look at him to know exactly what’s going on under the table, but maybe if he pretends he’s sleeping …

 _“Gwen,”_  he pleads, trying one last time. But it sounds fake even to him, because even though the angle’s awkward and there are a hundred, a  _million_  reasons to push her away and go back to having a pleasant dinner with his colleague, he hasn’t been this close to her in weeks and he’d forgotten how  _good_  she smells, clean and vaguely floral like the shampoo he’s seen in the bathroom (and, he hates to admit, used once or twice for non-hair purposes). She’s soft all over, too, velvety skin and thick hair and feather-light brushes of her fingertips on his wrist — the hand that’s above the table, that is, the one tracing delicate patterns in his skin that somehow are tied directly to his dick, like he can feel her drawing them down there and it  _aches_ , everything so teasing and gentle except for the fingers around him, which are slow, way too slow but so so  _tight_.

He can’t breathe. He might actually die here, and he’d be on the news as the moron who died of a heart attack while being jerked off in a semi-crowded bar, but he can’t tell her to stop, even if he had the breath to speak he can’t do it, because that would mean she might actually listen to him and that would be horrible, and she might not listen to him and that would be even  _worse_ , because the only thing more frustrating than knowing she doesn’t want him like he wants her is knowing that sometimes she  _does_ , and when she wants something he’s helpless to stop her. If he … if he told her to stop and she just said “no” — or didn’t say anything, just laughed that low throaty laugh that’s more than once made him rush straight for the nearest bathroom — he might unravel right on the spot, and then she wouldn’t be touching him and god she’s touching him she’s  _touching him_  —

For a few miserably wonderfully agonizing minutes, David isn’t aware of anything but the quiet, slightly uneven breathing of the woman beside him — the cruel, beautiful, perfect monster of a woman, who on one level knows  _exactly_  what she’s doing to him and on another has no idea, because she doesn’t know how he’s stood outside her door, fists clenching and unclenching as he tries to get up the courage to just  _talk_  to her, like a guy talks to a girl, like they’re just two people who actually like each other, she doesn’t know the way she’s sneaked into every crevice of his mind, so that “oh yeah that girl I work with, she’s nice” turned into “my co-counselor, she’s pretty and smart and funny and I think we’re friends” and now is just an endless refrain of “Gwen Gwen Gwen Gwen  _Gwen,”_ like her name is a charm but instead of protection it just keeps him tethered to her. Her breathing and the way her chest moves as she does (and he’s supposed to have his eyes closed, he’s not supposed to see that but he can’t help but peek, not when it’s  _right there_  like that, not when she’s swapped out her counselor uniform for a backless metallic green dress that’s drapey and clingy in ways he can’t explain but are mesmerizing, he’d have to tear out his eyes to stop looking at her), and her breaths and her chest both match the rhythm of her fingers — that is to say, way too slow but oh wow he can’t complain. He’d never complain, not while her hand is around him and she’s pressed against his side like they’re a normal couple on a normal date and  _gosh_  is this what normal couples do because he wants it, wants it so bad it hurts, but he’ll take whatever scraps Gwen will throw at him and if those scraps are a tender kiss on the cheek and a beautiful ohhh godd so beautiful squeeze to his dick, then fine. 

It’s not enough, not nearly enough in any sense of the word, but it’s still so good and so, so much more than he deserves and he’ll take it, take it with a smile.

“You doing okay?” Gwen’s breathing’s roughened slightly, the kind of harshness it usually gets when they’re in the mess hall for dinner and she bumps his foot with her own, giving him raised eyebrows and a smile that lets him know he’s in for it, because she’s turned on and they haven’t even started anything. The fact that it’s this strained now forces him to bite down on his tongue hard enough to taste metal because he did that to her. And it’s such a small thing, so meaningless compared to the sighs and the gasps and the moans she tries to choke back when on top of him, but it doesn’t matter because for the first time it’s just her touching him, she’s breathing like that because she’s touching him. For a second David lets himself think that maybe she’s as desperate for him as he is for her, that maybe she hurts like the worst thirst when they’re together and can’t  _do_  anything. It’s impossible, of course it’s ridiculous and impossible and crazy, but so is this situation so why not just enjoy it and pretend, just for a few minutes?

“You doing okay?” Gwen’s honestly starting to worry. He’s been quiet — admirably quiet, considering she can feel in her fingers how fast and how hard his heart is racing — and there’s just the slightest fluttering of his eyelids, just the barest edge to his breathing. His cheeks are pink but that could be excused by the heat, his hair is a little mussed from leaning against the booth and her head but it suits him, like he just crawled out of bed.

He … she’s surprised to admit it, but he looks good. Like she wants to keep looking at him, like even if he wasn’t the only guy around she’d look at him.

David nods, opening his mouth to answer but closing it almost immediately on a strangled moan that he buries in her neck, the sound rumbling and vibrating through her skin in a way that makes her shiver. Of course it does, it’s heat and arousal and a man barely clinging on to self-control, and even if it was the Quartermaster she’d probably still shiver just like that, it’s not because it’s  _David_. There’s nothing nothing nothing special about David.

That thought barely enters her mind when she recognizes the waitress who’d led them to these seats, hours ago it seems, weaving through the mostly-empty tables toward them. Gwen stills her hand immediately, causing David to whimper, the most pathetic stricken sound that for a second almost makes her want to cry, but she nudges at him with her head and he opens his eyes. They’re half-lidded and blown out with hazy lust, but snap to frightened clarity as the woman approaches them. “Gwen,” he hisses, trying to wriggle away from her grip, “what are you doing? You have to stop, we’ll get caught, you can’t  _haaaah_  sstop  _sto-op_  p-p- _please_  …”

She can’t stroke him; the movement would be way too obvious, and they haven’t even gotten their drinks yet. But as she smiles brightly at Tanya the waitress, she tightens her grip around his dick, brushing her thumb around and beneath his foreskin to rub the underside of his head. The hand on the table, the one she’s still holding, clenches into a fist, nails dragging into the lacquered wood surface.

“Are we ready for something to drink?” Tanya asks, glancing at both of them without seeming to register anything’s off. Gwen orders her drink smoothly, as though she can’t feel the tension in David’s clenched hand, can’t see the way the muscles of that arm have tightened and  _shit_  he actually has muscles, where the fuck have those been and since when have they looked that good, all pale and freckled and lithe and hard?

“And for you, sir?”

Gwen wonders if he’s going to blow their cover, if he’ll just break and groan or buck or something. But he trains his gaze wearily on the menu, though with the way her thumb is circling him there’s no way he can understand what he’s looking at, and after about ten seconds he closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I-I … whatever she’s. Um. I’ll take the same thing as her.” He jerks his head in Gwen’s direction without looking up from the menu. His voice doesn’t crack, doesn’t even really waver. He sounds tired, a little out of it, but she’s impressed, because she can’t hear the way he’s throbbing in her hand, the way the muscles of his thighs and stomach are twitching against her arm where she’s resting it, the way his head and boxers are already slicking with precome.

“Okay!” Tanya takes their drinks menus and gives them another sunny, “I really want a 20% tip” smile. “Do you still need a few minutes to decide on dinner?”

“Just a few,” Gwen replies.  _Maybe five or ten_.

No sooner than the waitress is out of earshot David drops his head to her shoulder again, allowing himself just the barest whisper of the bone-deep moan he wants to breathe into her skin. “Th-that was …  _nggh —”_  With a careful glance around to make sure they’re still being ignored, she resumes jerking him off, a little harder and a little faster and still keeping her amazing evil thumb, wet with  _him_ , gliding along the underside of his shaft to brush with a slight flicking motion against his head, picking up more precome and spreading it around him until everything is hot and  _wet_  and he — he didn’t think he was close but fuck he’s almost there because she’s not just teasing now, she has a plan and that plan is to pull him to shreds with each breathtaking twist of her wrist, each drag of her fingers and  _oh no_.

Gwen kisses his temple, her breath shaky and fluttery across his ear, and for a second David has to grit his teeth and screw his eyes shut because he can come from that, just a soft breeze from her lips because that’s how broken he’s become, how frantic for her, like a well-trained dog he can jump on command. He keeps himself together, but he twitches  _hard_  in her hand and she must feel it. Still, he wants this to last. He doesn’t care that they’re in public anymore, he doesn’t care that this isn’t real the way he wants it to be, he doesn’t care about anything except how  _good_  it feels, and he wants to come so bad but he won’t, it’s so so — fuck it’s perfect and he won’t … he can’t … he’s not letting go of it, not just yet. If it takes every muscle in his body to keep his hips pinned to the seat, if it takes biting his lip hard enough to make it swell and ache (and then to  _stop_  biting it, because that hurt too amazingly and that’s the last thing he needs), if it takes gathering the shredded remains of his mind and his restraint and clinging to them like he’s drowning he’ll do it, because he’s not going to come no matter — no matter what —

And then she starts talking.

Gwen doesn’t  _talk_ , not during what they do. Neither of them do; it’s part of their agreement. No talking, noises to a minimum, it’s partly for security and partly because she’s keeping him at arm’s length, metaphorically if not physically. But now … “You know,“ she whispers, just a trace of a smile in her voice, "if we were anywhere else I’d crawl under this table and suck you off.” She’s still drawing on the back of his hand, her fingernail leaving ticklish tingling lines that burn in the wake of her touch. “I want you to grab my hair and fuck my throat” — and David has to curl in on himself to hold back the noise he wants to make, the dying animal flayed raw  _wounded_  noise because her language will never stop getting to him, from the first time he heard it he was uncomfortably affected and now it’s enough to make his entire body shudder — “and use me until I gag, come in my mouth and paint my face and ruin this makeup I spent way too fucking long on." 

Her voice is so innocent, if he didn’t speak English it’d sound like she was talking about nothing more scandalous than the weather, and it sounds so  _wrong_  having so much sweetness and filth together like this, so dirty and wrong and not something he should love but it’s so unexpected and so alien and at the same time so perfectly  _Gwen_  that he knows he’s done. He tried, he really did, and part of him hates himself for not being able to hold out longer but what was he supposed to do against that? Against that voice, against those words, against the image in his head and the way her wet, wet hand could feel like her mouth with just a little imagination —

"Gw-en,  _Gwen_ , I’m, I —” He can’t get it out, can’t even warn her before he falls apart, wrapping his free arm around her and clinging to her too tight, he’s probably hurting her and he should let go but he needs to hold onto  _something_  to keep from screaming because  _fuck_  it feels like he’s being dragged through molasses up a hill, the air heating up and thickening until all of a sudden it breaks and everything’s easy, his hips finally stuttering upwards and every muscle in his body shaking and shaking and shaking. He’s nothing but a quivering mess of nerves, and oh god oh fuck oh ohh  _ohhhh_

He collapses, not even pretending to sleep or sit or whatever cover he was supposed to have. He didn’t scream, didn’t thrash against her like he wanted so  _badly_  to, and that’s a bigger victory than he ever could’ve imagined. He’s exhausted, and broken, but he’s won. 

“Not bad,” Gwen whispers, giving him one last kiss and one last stroke before pulling her hand away. He lifts his head, dazed and panting, and watches as she casually rests her chin in the hand that was just  _on him_. From where they’re sitting she just looks like she’s thinking, but at this angle he can see there’s a bit of his come between her fingers and as he watches he feels like he’s going to faint, because her tongue pokes out and laps it up, dipping between each of her fingers one by one and licking her hand clean. And if it was possible to come again just from seeing that he would’ve, it’s so shameless and messy and fits so perfectly with the words burning in his head because  _he did it_ , not the way she said but he painted her with his — well, you know — and he’ll never forget it no matter how much he’ll want to, and God he’ll probably want to more than once.

No, he hasn’t won, not by a long shot. She has.

The quiet sound of him redoing his fly and fixing his belt make her glance over, a small smile on her face. Even as wrung dry as he is, he can’t help but greet that smile with one of his own. How could he not? It’s so effortlessly beautiful and far too rare, and if he was dying he’d probably still have that Pavlovian response to her smile because it’s too good for him, too good by half but she directs it at him anyway, more than anyone else at the camp and that makes him feel special. He hates that it does but he can’t help it. “Are you all right?” she finally asks, and her voice is hoarse like he really had been fucking her mouth, and he hates how the thought makes him shiver.

“I …” He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes to gather his thoughts. “I should probably go clean up.”

"Oh, right.” Looking a little embarrassed — or has her face been that pink this whole time? — she shifts out of the booth so he can slide out, and none of it reached his shorts but he’s still painfully self-conscious. “Sorry about that.”

The thought of her being sorry for that — of  _him_  being sorry for that — is so ridiculous but he’s too tired to laugh, he just lets out a weak huff and pats her shoulder as he heads to the bathroom.

Once he’s put back together, more or less, he leans into the mirror, clutching at the sink with trembling hands. He wants to give himself a pep talk, but what is there to say? He can’t remind himself of the rules of their relationship because she just broke all of them. He can’t tell himself it means something because what if it doesn’t? He’s not one for pessimism but he’s hoped before and it hurts, and he’s a "fall down 7 times get up 8” kinda guy but after a while he just wants it to stop hurting, wants to stop falling. 

But he can’t tell himself to stop falling, because every time she touches him he comes apart. Her jokes, her smile, her touch her anger her  _everything_ , they’re what tear him to pieces and put him back together, over and over and over a thousand times a day, and he can no more say no to her than abandon Camp Campbell. 

David’s going to hell, or maybe he’s already there.

But he doesn’t regret it.

He can’t.

Gwen’s waiting for him when he returns. David isn’t sure why that surprises him, except that everything that just happened feels like a dream and it’d be just like all the other dreams he’s had of her to wake up and be alone, but she’s there and she’s sitting with two small glasses of something bright green, and she favors him with that unfair smile and he smiles back like he always does.

“Here,” she says when he sits down, sliding one of the glasses over to him. “I know you don’t usually drink, but … uh, you ordered it. And it’s sweet, I think you’ll like it.” She picks up her drink and holds it out to him, waiting while he returns her cheers. “Besides, I bet you could use a little buzz right now, huh?”

He could.

**Author's Note:**

> Ciphernetics started to write a sequel to this. Go to her [tumblr](http://ciphernetics.tumblr.com/) and beg her to finish and publish it, because it's amazing and adorable and fixes all the hurt feelings of this one.


End file.
